Devil's Plaything
by Lycorth
Summary: In an alternate universe taking place during the Third Age of Middle-earth, this is the saga of the Black Númenóreans' end of their service to Sauron.
1. Foreword

_**Foreword**_

"Devil's Plaything" was originally written in the autumn/winter of 2004-5, as a cathartic piece wherein I worked out some difficult and even traumatic events in my life, following a series of bad decisions. In the wake of this, I learned the value of forgiveness for oneself as well as the importance of becoming a prodigal if one cannot stick to the wisest path in the first place. It was named for a song by the band Danzig, whose music at the time struck a chord within me and offered a soundtrack for long hours of thinking and writing, editing and re-editing.

Secondarily, "Devil's Plaything" was an attempt to figure myself into Middle-earth, which accounts for all the lupine elements and wolfish references, given my own fascination with and admiration for the beasts. So, in a sense, it veers into "Mary Sue-ish" territory, but I hope the reader will forgive such an inevitable thing.

Lastly, but with no less importance, "Devil's Plaything" is a tribute to the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, the author of _The Silmarillion_, _The Hobbit_, and _The Lord of the Rings_ books, amongst others. Tolkien's world, its mythos and its people, its legendarium and its history, have touched the hearts and minds of millions of readers since their publishing, myself not least amongst them. Tolkien's works have provided inestimable inspiration for me-entertainment in my happiest hours and hope in my darkest. It is in honor and homage to him that I offer up this small work of my own, edited with help from a fellow and exceedingly well-read Tolkien enthusiast, to pay at least some small tribute to the man whose imagination has stirred the hearts of millions and will continue to stir the hearts of millions more.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy "Devil's Plaything".

- Lycorth


	2. Act I

_"Devil's plaything_

_In my hands_

_If you don't want pain_

_You don't understand_

_Got a light_

_Shines on me_

_If you wanna touch flames_

_Come unto me."_

_- Glenn Danzig_

**Act I**

They move with haste, knowing their time is now short. Surely the warning horn was heard, for it echoed off the lofty walls of Minas Morgul, and reinforcements will no doubt come swiftly. They enter the stables and each takes a horse whilst the lookouts usher the others in. Always kept ready for battle, the steeds are already saddled, and they proceed to mount them, everyone who can ride each taking a horse, in order to steal away as many as they can.

She peers into the murky blackness, eyes searching for those who heard the call for help. It is only a matter of perhaps minutes, and though Orcs are none too swift, they have wit enough to recognize the sound of alarm and grab their swords. It was a small miracle that none of their number were slain or wounded in this surprise attack, for risky it was, and hard fought. It went according to plan; a small cadre snuck up to the sentries, with drawn swords hidden beneath black cloaks, whilst archers crept in the shadows around the massive stable complex. They would strike swiftly and in unison with shaft and sword, killing all the guards with one quick stroke. But they hadn't counted on extra sentries being posted, and that one of them would have wandered from its post just before the covert killings could occur. That sentry would not live long, having been spotted immediately after returning to its station, but ere was slain it winded a horn in alarm. But that is of little matter now; her keen glance sweeps right and left, and still she spies no Orcs; a sign that they still have a window of opportunity, however small. As the last of her comrades enter the stables, she dashes in quicky behind them. She mounts the first horse she can, takes a moment to gather herself, and follows her kin out of the stables.

They ride hard for the gates, hearing the sound of horns pealing broken notes in the distance. They may only have minutes left before the entire Citadel is aware of what had just happened, and their window of escape is slowly shut. Hard they ride across the courtyard; evidently the guards there are still ignorant of the happenings. She swallows hard, and gathers herself for this the next challenge, which is passing the Gates. The plans were all laid down to her in secret, and many times did she go over them in her mind, and in her pride she was certain of their success. Still, she finds that she must summon forth her courage at each juncture, for she knows death is near them.

Death was always near her here; this she knew full well. Though, until this hour, she was confident she could keep it at bay, and indeed knew she could, wielding great power as the _Balâk Gôlkali_, the Great Witch of the Covens of Mordor. She learned great and dark arts from the Balâk Gôlkali who preceded her, ere she slew herself on the Great Altar in Barad-dûr, a living sacrifice offered at the end of her days to the Eye. She shudders a bit as she recalls this, now and for the first time feeling disgusted at the event she witnessed so long ago. Indeed, within her bubbles forth many new emotions and she finds them difficult to control, as they are alien to her. Regret, despair, unrest-she never knew these feelings before. She was always so content, so wickedly pleased at her power here, and her position. She oversaw the induction of new _gôlkali_, the ritual sacrifice of living beings to strengthen the Eye's power and add to her own, and the breeding of both Orcs in the hideous pits where the female Orcs were ever kept in chains for the satisfaction of the lusts of the males, and of her own kind with each other for the preservation of their noble strain in the Dark Lands.

Descended is she and all her comrades from Mannish blood, and they are known in the Black Speech of Mordor as the _Búrzshâr-hai_-the Black Númenóreans. Their ancestors worshiped Sauron in the dark years when he held power in Middle-earth, and though their folk have dwindled, many have held out and clung to life, preserving the Númenórean bloodline here in Middle-earth, and now they rise in power as Sauron does. He stretches forth his hand and pulls armies to himself, and seeks his Ring of old, and soon shall send forth the Hordes to overwhelm all of Middle-earth and finally bring it under his sway. Though he shall have a harder time now with his Hordes, for those who trained them for so long and turned them from a mindless rabble of living refuse into a formidable legion of warlike monsters now hew them down, leading a desperate escape. Now, the Orcs shall only have perhaps the Nine to rely on for leadership, or what few of their breed rose in competence enough to be given some small authority over the rest. Even the Nine shall find it difficult to command an hundred thousand.

Her mind drifts back to the months preceding this pivotal hour. She remembers the moments alone when she felt as if she wearied of her power and dominance, seeing such weariness also in a few others, here and there, and the tiniest hint of discontent came forth. She recalls the day when she was sought out, and the seed of this discontent placed in her ear, where it took root in the depths of her soul. And she recalls most who sought her out, for rare was it that he came for her-she came to him as a matter of course, or she was summoned to him. Even she, the Balâk Gôlkali of Mordor, was at his command, greatest of the Black Númenóreans. In the Adûnaic tongue of Númenor his name is Torbârak, Forest-doom, so named after the ancient kenning used to refer to wolves, and he is the _Azgarâbâr_ or Warlord, the highest warrior of the Great Towers of Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul-chieftain of all the Black Númenórean folk. Torbârak was born in the city of her own birth-Háyanor, the Far-off Land, the Black Númenórean refuge created after the loss of Umbar in 933 to Eärnil I. As Warlord, he oversaw the training of the Hordes who served Sauron, and the organization of all forces who came to the Black Lands, for his skill at war was great and his ferocity second to neither Man nor Orc. It was he who taught battle to the Orcs and also led sorties in war, riding to any city of Easterlings or Haradrim who were less than obedient, and forcing submission through rapine and slaughter. His was the highest office of the Black Númenóreans in Mordor, and to him all others answered, including the elite Black Númenórean warriors known as _Varohalîth_, or Wolf-coats. The Wolf-coats, the fiercest Black Númenórean warriors, wore coats made of wolf-skins and communed each with an enchanted wolf as both symbols of their loyalty to Sauron and as a source of strength and ferocity in battle; Sauron's sway over the wolves of the wild had grown weak since the days of his ancient might, and so it was through Torbârak and his Wolf-coats that he exercised control over them. For his part, Torbârak answered only to the Nine, or the Eye above all-and to none other. Yet, Torbârak came to her even before anyone else, speaking of discord in a quiet tone, yet a tone laced with courage and authority. Indeed, though she was often summoned to him for little more than carnal pleasures, which she gladly yielded to as each sought to rise in the other's favor as well as enjoy a moment of pleasure and release, now she heeded his words more than ever before. It did take some time; after all, Torbârak's words undid everything she knew and everything she aspired to. Yet she knew the truth was in them, as he spoke of all their people and the promises that were offered them. He whispered of the truth that indeed, nothing that was sworn to them was ever granted, and they in reality are servants sitting on a dung-heap rather than mighty rulers in towers of iron and stone, with the rebellious folk of Middle-earth beneath them.

But the question now swirls in her mind; who are the truly rebellious? Is it indeed the whole of Middle-earth that defies the mastery of Sauron, and chafes under the order and peace he would bring, who stubbornly prefer war and recalcitrance to the simple path of obedience that would end all their struggles and sufferings? Or is it the Black Númenóreans, who forsook the free world beyond the Morannon and over the Ephel Dúath to live here in servitude and always reach for things they can never grasp? Power, kingdoms, wealth-all promises, and all lies, down to the littlest and the last of them. They endure the long existence of the centuries, their blood virtually unthinned and unmixed with that of lesser men, and their long life preserved well within them, and for what? What has the Eye shown to them? What was given, except the intoxicating liquor of more power over Orcs they despise, supposedly hinting at greater power to be had? Indeed, aside from this paltry power and the thin gifts of wine and rich food and various other little sundries, blood-soaked spoils of war from other lands, nothing has ever been awarded to them. They have been servants, almost slaves in their own right, much as the Nine, except bound less by foul sorcery and more by generations of subterfuge and their own greedy lusts, always thinking them moments away from fulfillment. That fool's chase has kept them here too long, in this land of Orcs and slag and machinations from on high. Their service has not been properly rewarded, and it should be withdrawn. Indeed, it shall be.

And what better time than now, when the Nine are so oft abroad, seeking for things unknown? Now, when those fully enslaved are gone, is the time to move, for the least resistance shall be encountered. And what Orcs could withstand the might of the Black Númenóreans? Though they have gathered fewer of their number here than they would have, it will have to do; there is no time left, and a chance like this shall not come to them again. Long have she and Torbârak met and whispered in secret, and many of their comrades met with them and each other, slowly winning their kin over, and the quiet song of rebellion grew with each added note. Lest they too one day become like the Nine, powerful but wholly upon their knees before the Eye with no chance of rising again, they should move now. And if they should meet death, then so be it; better to die upon their feet than live upon their knees, enchanted and enslaved.

No more will she entertain such illusions. She has been taken advantage of, and made into a toy like the rest of her kin, a devil's plaything for the pleasure of the Eye. She scorns and curses her impotent Master in his tower and is glad she now risks her life in this daring venture, all too pleased to be a fist in the face of Sauron this day. Perhaps she would still be in her chambers, licking blood from her dagger like a sow with her head in a trough were it not for Torbârak, within whom it is said that the seed of sedition first took root. It was he who contrived the plans in secret, over time and with great patience, his cold and cunning mind discerning each chink in the armor that made up the defenses of Mordor and the flaws within its power structure. Thus far, he has proven himself worthy; the horses they ride are the spoils of a well-orchestrated raid, the first step on the road to escape and flight. He organized the gathering of all sympathetic Black Númenóreans within Minas Morgul, to coincide with the latest sortie of the Nine out into Middle-earth, all under the pretext of shoring up and strengthening the chain of command whilst the Nazgûl were gone and to help build the strength of the invasion force that was being assembled there. Indeed, were it not for the Eye's desire to send endless missions to soften up the defenses of Osgiliath ere the main invasion force issues forth, there would have little to justify the relocation of so many Black Númenóreans to the Citadel-including every Wolf-coat and his powerful familiar. They were needed elsewhere, for the training of the Orcs or for special missions kept secret even from each other. He also organized much in the old city of Háyanor, where he claimed the Eye was no longer obeyed as it was believed to be. There, the Wolf-heart claimed he was now king, not Sauron, and he promised Háyanor would aid them to the end. Torbârak planned it so, and his plans have bore fruit thus far.

She sighs tersely to herself, and grips her reins harder, preparing herself and moving her horse forward as they reach the Gates of Minas Morgul. Thoughts and wants fill her mind as she summons her will forth from within her to use upon the Orcs at the gates. For months, she has secretly wrestled with the fact that all her desires and wishes, dangled before her as bait to retain her loyalty, shall not be fulfilled. Indeed, her nature has betrayed her-or has her nature been used against her? In the Adûnaic tongue, her name indicates what lies at her heart-desire. Zâiraphel, Lady of Longing, Queen of Desire-imprisoned by her own cravings. Wealth, power, eternal life-she set herself to these goals and none other. Every art of magic she studied, every arcane truth she made her own, and all towards that one end. And Sauron peered into her mind and spoke sweetly of her wants and promised her a path to them. Zâiraphel obeyed, as did all her kinfolk, and ere she knew it, she had been obeying for years.

Indeed, she lost count of the years. Long years wasted in the Black Lands, their lifespans feebly lengthened through sorcery and the might of the Eye, ever reaching for the promises of Sauron but never grasping a one. Zâiraphel bites at her tongue to keep from cursing and to help steady and focus her mind. The arts she learned in Háyanor and perfected in Mordor would now be turned against Sauron. All that they know, be it of war or magic, will no longer be frittered away in service to the Eye. Now, her desires shall be the fire in her breast that shall light the way from shadow. Freedom and life away from all this wickedness is now also her desire, and she shall pursue this one to the death, she and all her kin.


	3. Act II

**Act II**

The Lady of Desire takes the van as the Orc guards approach. She holds up her hand and presses her will upon them, her dark arts bringing forth the same obedience from the Orcs as they ever have, and they let the company pass. Torbârak gives them false news of a rebellion caused by some of the Southrons who are stationed at Minas Morgul, and to make for the stables immediately; they are headed out to the Morgul Pass to thwart a possible sneak attack of Southrons who are believed to be on the roads around the Citadel. The gates to Minas Morgul creak and clang open, and through the fell light that issues from it pour the Black Númenóreans, heading over the bridge and confounding their enemies further. As the company passes, some of the riders in the rear cast burning torches on the noisome fields, and flames spring forth. Quickly they spread over the dread fields before the Citadel, the flames catching on the noxious flowers like sparks in oil-soaked leaves, providing extra cover for their flight. Now, the Orcs must extinguish the flames or else wait until the fields are consumed before they can pursue.

The Black Númenóreans ride hard across the Morgul Vale, sparing not their horses. They stop only briefly on their way to the river, once they are certain they are not being pursued. They do not tarry long, only enough to gather themselves and take stock of their situation. During this time, the Black Númenóreans are aware of a change in the world around them-or perhaps within them. Many catch themselves lost in thought, or muttering to themselves. It is as if a spell has indeed been lifted from them. The witches assess the matter and determine that indeed some magic of a sort was unraveled when they fled Mordor, magic even they could only speculate about. They were truly under the sway of Sauron, guided by the Nine, tools for the machine of Mordor.

Putting this aside for the time being, the Black Númenóreans head due west for the eastern half of Osgiliath. The Witch-king has been testing the strength of Gondor as of late, and has sent sorties against the ruined city and the garrisons stationed there. Orcs wage a pitched battle against the men of Gondor and the Rangers of Ithilien, and the battle goes ill for Morgul. Led by Boromir, son of Denethor, the Hordes are being pushed back. As they begin to sound a retreat, a few of their captains turn to notice the clouds of dust wafting up from the horizon behind them and the sound of many hooves pounding the earth hard is felt by the Morgul host. The Black Númenóreans ride up the Hordes, which are totally unaware of the events back at their Citadel. The witches climb down and assemble; the other women gather off to the side, but near to the witches for when the trap is sprung. Torbârak holds up his hand, the fell authority in his trained voice beckoning all to listen: "We come from Morgul to assist in the effort! This army of pigs will never drive back the Men of Gondor! Assemble your forces and take the van! We charge!"

Torbârak thanks his luck again and is grateful that he was so successful in convincing so many of his kinfolk to leave Mordor. It was simply good to be able to free so many to begin with, and with so many now gone Sauron will have a far harder time of it when his hour of war comes. But also, there is much skill concentrated here, for only witches and warriors accompany him. In Háyanor, they trained in war and magic and most were very skilled in their path, capable of surviving in even the harsh lands south of the Mountains of Shadow. But in Mordor, no Black Númenórean entered unless he or she were fully capable above the rest of their kin, and could mend clothing or wounds or weapons or armor or fashion new ones at need. Every Black Númenórean in Mordor could hunt for and prepare their own food if need be, clothe and arm themselves, and fight in their own fashion until the last breath. Indeed, Torbârak had trained them so, and saw to it that Mordor held the highest of the elite, the cream of the crop, the finest that the Black Númenórean people could produce. Behind him, he brought a small but elite army-sure to enrich Gondor if they would have them as much as rob Mordor of a necessary part of Sauron's plan.

With the arts of the witches at work, swaying the simple minds of the Orc captains with images of fear and reprisal, they obey, summoning their retreating soldiers to halt and reassemble. They form a broad line, and the Black Númenóreans gather behind them, readying their swords. The Men halt their pursuit, seeing the Black Númenóreans and for a brief moment doubting their victory, so close to their grasp. Boromir rides to the head of the lines, and call out "Men of Gondor! Stand firm! They will break on us like water on rocks! For Gondor!"

Gondor braces for the assault and the Orcs of Morgul begin to charge, bellowing and slavering. Torbârak waits for the Orcs to advance a few more yards, then he thrusts his sword into the air and issues the command that dooms the invading Morgul host: "Assail!"

The Orcs are startled at this, believing the Black Númenóreans were already charging behind them, or else were waiting for them to make battle with Gondor again, not call their charge in the middle of the foot's initial thrust. But the Orcs have little time to digest the matter as they turn to see the Black Númenóreans riding straight for them, swords drawn, and their fell eyes focused not on Gondor but on them. They have only seconds and confusion reigns in their minds, not a counterattack strategy, and the Black Númenóreans drive their horses right over the remnant of the Morgul host like mountain trolls running through foliage. They unleash harsh and terrible cries of battle, unnerving their foes and their swords hew helm and head. Gondor can only stand back in amaze, watching as the Black Númenóreans butcher their own Horde, utterly confused as they watch the carnage unfold.

The witches pool together all their dark power and assault the minds of the Orcs with images of terror to confuse them, and illusions of the Men of Gondor charging from the rear. Many Orcs quail, running in fear from what they believe is an overwhelming attack, and others cast down their weapons and sue for mercy, only to be ridden over by the horses of the Black Númenóreans. Many of them bellow and hew at the air, hacking at visions thrust upon their minds by the witches, and are cut down like standing grass. The wolf-companions of the varohalîth encircle the carnage and then plunge deep into it, setting upon the confused Orcs. Many flee behind the Black Númenóreans, and they are pursued and slain, but a few manage to escape, plunging into the shadows and into secret passages that the Black Númenóreans do not know of. The witches try to summon the Orcs forth from their paths of escape, but having been so exhausted by the rebellion at Minas Morgul, the manipulating of the Orcs at the Citadel as they made their way out, and the mind control of the Orcs now at Osgiliath, that their efforts are wasted, and many collapse, near to unconsciousness.

The Black Númenóreans slay every Orc they can trap within the circle of their horses, and slaughter all the remaining force. They ride to and fro, finishing off the injured and making certain the dead are indeed dead. Then, they rally to Torbârak and turn to face Gondor. The Men of Gondor and the Rangers of Ithilien stand there, silent and grim, confused and ready to spring upon the Black Númenóreans. Torbârak rides his horse before the Gondorians and dismounts, holding up his hand in token of peace. The Men look at each other in astonishment as Torbârak removes his helm and casts it down before him. His face is painted grimly for war, and he appears dreadful and fearsome; the Men of Gondor wonder for a moment if they behold a man or instead a demon conjured from the depths of Mordor. Torbârak walks a few paces towards the Men, and lifts his great black mace Anigmil the Iron Star, and casts it to the dirt alongside his fearsome helm. According to Black Númenórean tradition the mace is his badge of authority over his people, the symbol of his office as well as his companion in battle, and though he may cast it down in a gesture of peace with Gondor, he will not forsake it. "Men of Gondor, no enemies do you look upon now, but allies! We will not lift sword against you, even should you attack us, for death in Gondor at your hands is far better than life in Mordor under the will of the Eye. Hear our needs!"

Boromir raises his hand, signaling for his men to stand down and suffer the Black Númenórean his request. He rides forward, not removing his helm nor sheathing his sword. "And what business do you have here, faithless one? You may have slain your whole host, clearly risking yourselves to so do, but Sauron would even waste the lives of his Hordes to get some gain, and how shall we know you are not such a deceit?"

Torbârak holds his hand up to his company, and signals. The Black Númenóreans dismount and each breaks his sword in full sight of Boromir and all the Men of Gondor. The witches and other fell Ladies assemble before them and near to Torbârak, and kneel upon the ground, heads bowed, in clear sign of surrender. The wolf-companions of the varohalîth lay upon the ground, heads on the dust, utterly still. Then the rest of the Black Númenóreans kneel before the Men of Gondor, save Torbârak. "Men of Gondor, here is your proof! Here in your sight we break our swords and submit ourselves to your mercy! We have news that will be of great benefit to the Lord Denethor, and also carry tidings that the cavalry of Minas Morgul is no more, for we stole these horses from the stables at our Citadel, and burnt the rest ere we fled. They are still battling the flames, for we arranged things so that the greatest damage would be done and the greatest burning would ensue."

"What would you have in return?" said Boromir.

"We are still in flight from Mordor," said Torbârak. "My name is Taurmarth, and I led this company from the Black Lands in dire risk," he responds, giving the Sindarin translation of his name. "We believe we have broken the spells that have held us at bay long ere your father's father was born, and great is our woe at what we now see we have done. We only ask a place to regroup and take stock, and to re-arm, and to swell the defenses of Gondor, if we may, in atonement for our very lives, lived ever in the service of the Dark Tower."

"This land is not safe, whatever victory you have brought today," said Boromir. "I and my captains must discuss this matter, but none of us may remain here. We do not trust you so quickly, faithless one, for long have you been in treacherous service to the enemies of your very people! But what you have done today is not unseen, and what you tell us is heartening. Indeed, the loss of Mordor's horses, which they have been long a-breeding, will set them at odds in any further battles. That you have done a thing like this is worthy in our sight, but there is much you will need to do to abate the wrath of even the simplest Gondorian commoner! You will follow us, and though I shall allow you to bear whatever arms you have, I warn you to keep them out of hand! Make no sudden movements lest we slay each of you! We shall fall back to decide what to do with you! Come now!"

With that, Boromir makes ready for the Gondorians to depart. Taurmarth signals to his company to follow him; he gathers his mace and helm and mounts his horse; the Black Númenóreans rise and mount their horses and follow the Men of Gondor across the bridge to West Osgiliath. They make their way outside the city, where they make camp separately, Boromir posting guard on the Black Númenóreans and leaving behind a sizeable guard across the river to watch for pursuit.


	4. Act III

**Act III**

The hours wear on, long and slow under the sun. All is quiet in the two camps, and within his tent Boromir takes counsel with his captains, joined by Faramir, Captain of the Rangers of Ithlien. The Black Númenóreans endure the long wait for Boromir's decision; they use the time to take stock of their situation, and the wait begins to weigh on them.

The mood in their camp is deep and sorrowful. With many hours to resume their observations and adapt to their newfound point of view on the nature of their lives and their services to Mordor, the Black Númenóreans finally face the utter depravity of their actions, down to the least and the last. The voice of their blood, muted for years beyond count under the power of Sauron, cries forth in horror at their deeds-centuries of blood and murder and evil. Weeping is heard rising from beside scattered campfires, and laments go up in raised voices. Curses and embittered shouts are directed to the east and the unrest grows steadily.

Two guards enter Boromir's tent, to report on the situation. "My lord, there is growing disquiet in the camp of the Black Númenóreans. The weeping of the women alone is enough to drive us mad with grief, for we can feel their immense sorrow, and it is like lead in our hearts. The men curse and lament, and they repent over and over of their lives, screaming their regret to the uncaring sky."

Boromir turns to Faramir. Faramir ponders the report of the guard for a moment. "Perhaps it is a trick, fell sorcery summoned by their witches to wear down our men with sadness, to what end I cannot guess."

Boromir nods. "We agree, brother. They are up to no good."

Boromir rises, and Faramir follows him. "Come, let us establish order and perhaps have a little peace in which to make our decision."

"And how do you intend to do that?" a stern voice issues from the door of Boromir's tent. The Men inside turn to it and are astonished. "Armed or no, there are several hundred strangers encamped outside this tent. You know the Black Númenóreans well; their warriors are beyond fearless in battle and will use their own bodies as weapons, and their witches are not devoid of their magic for long. They have all rested much in their misery."

Boromir gathers himself and responds, "Mithrandir! I heard you not! It is so sudden for you to appear; how did you learn of this?"

"I was passing through Ithilien, Lord Boromir, and though I pass unseen little passes me unseen, or untold to me. I have come to investigate, and wish to go down to their camp and see just who it is that flies from Mordor in rags and black iron, burning horses behind them, throwing down their swords before an army that could have, and perhaps should have, slain them where they stood."

Boromir and Faramir exchange glances, knowing the strange events of this day are indeed properly crowned with the coming again of the Grey Pilgrim, and agree to impede him not, and go with him into the camp of the Black Númenóreans, to learn what they may.

Down go Boromir, Faramir, and Mithrandir, escorted by several knights. They pass into the camp of the Black Númenóreans and there witness the disquiet reported with their eyes, up close and personal. Many of them are huddled in groups, tearfully speaking of fell things with the highest disbelief-disbelief at their own part in it. Many others are alone, or in groups of two or three, some weeping bitterly, others shaking their heads and whispering, still others staring lost into their campfires or into the darkening sky, as if their souls have left their bodies. The familiars of the varohalîth, the _draughelethrim_ as they are known in the tongue of the Sindar, each stay with the draugheleth to which it is companion, silent and loyal, but even their lupine eyes seem sorrowful, not keen and prey-hungry. Indeed, over the passing hours, as the Black Númenóreans took counsel amongst themselves, their mood has changed. Still they feel cheated out of what they have earned, and they are greatly angered at having been manipulated so, but new regrets now swirl in their minds. They look back and reflect on their lives in Mordor, and begin to feel disgust and sorrow over them, much the same as Anírorien began to feel revulsion at the suicide of the first Great Witch whilst they were still in the Black Lands. Now, that revulsion spreads, and they begin to see their deeds as wicked, and lament those deeds. From within them it is as if their consciences reawaken after years of slumber, and the voice of their noble Númenórean blood calls out to them, urging them towards clearer sight and perspective. The men and women mostly keep separate company, and grieve apart, the men in anger, the women in tears. It strikes Mithrandir and the sons of Denethor to witness such fell captains repenting so openly of the Dark Tower with such horror and wrath in their voices, and to see the Dark Ladies, ordinarily so terrible and so beautiful to behold, cast themselves on the ground and hide their faces in their hands, utterly broken and fallen from the lofty and evil heights that they once stood upon. Indeed, though their magic is doubtlessly well-rested, and they are capable of toying with the minds of the greatest warriors as if they were pieces in a children's game, they are of no threat to anyone now, except perhaps themselves.

"Death!" a witch cries, her face twisted in agony, turned towards the heavens. "Death is the only release! Death is all I can ask for! There is no payment I can raise for my debt! I must forfeit myself!"

With that, she draws a dagger. The Black Númenórean women fought not nor trained with weapons, except for a small dagger, to use at the uttermost need, or even furthermore in other applications. The blade she draws has been used in many an evil ritual, in the sacrifices aforementioned. Blood and lives were both drawn with it, from both man and beast in sacrifice. In her hand alone did it achieve this purpose, and now in her hand it is intended to take one more life, one last time.

The witch raises the dagger as others turn to look at her, others still ignoring her or too caught up in the throes of their own misery to even notice that of another. Alone in the dust she kneels and prepares to run herself through when a great shout goes up, one full of authority, and at it everyone turns. One hand closes quickly around the dagger and snatches it away from the despairing gúlhíril, another hand opens and delivers a blow to her face, knocking her back to the earth and out of her black reverie. "No! No more of this! We did not risk ourselves to bring you to safety so that you may cast yourself down in the dirt and kill yourself!"

The wolf-coated warrior turns to the onlookers; the entire camp now turns their attentions thither, as they could not but do when his voice goes out. Mithrandir makes his way to the front of the press, and the sons of Denethor recognize him as the captain who surrendered to Gondor hours ago at the end of the battle for Osgiliath. "Indeed, we did not risk our lives only to permit other lives to be thrown away! Did we not ride from the Black Lands knowing that Death would pursue us? If it was indeed death you sought, then why did you flee? Why did you not stay and meet your desire?"

Tall and lordly he stands, and in his voice there is the sound of ancient kings. Grim though he appears, he stands now as a ruler of ancient Númenor, and each word he issues is as if spoken by their ancestors. His eyes flash as he speaks, and all attention he holds in the palm of his hand. None dare defy him. "You fled because you want to live! You fled because you know the only means for our vengeance lies in our continued lives! Only in unity and common purpose will we ever know peace, not at the end of sacrificial daggers! Do not do the Dark Lord's work for him!"

"Well spoken, Wolfheart," said Mithrandir, approaching a few steps closer.

Taurmarth turns to face him, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You... you are the Grey Wanderer?"

Mithrandir nods. "Yes, I am, but I am more used to kinder names, if you please. "Mithrandir" will suffice."

"Why have you come, Mithrandir?" said Taurmarth. "It is said you are a trickster, and with your illusions you manipulate kings. But that is told those in Mordor by those in Mordor, and indeed we do not know what to believe anymore. If all that was told us was true, then these Gondorians should be skinning us alive and hanging us from the parapets for birds to peck at. But that is hardly true, though we sit here camped in the dust, soon to starve and perish from thirst if the lordly son of Denethor cannot come to a simple decision ere the next month dawns."

"Simple?" Boromir thunders, pushing forward. "What is so simple about this? Ye faithless murderers come forth from Mordor and sue for mercy, and expect me to decide your fate as swiftly as I choose a stone to hone my sword with?"

Mithrandir raises his hand before more such words are exchanged. "There is more at stake here than meets the eye, Boromir of the White City. Lord Taurmarth here has seen much of the Black Land, I wager, and has much to share with the White Tower."

"Indeed," said Taurmarth. "For it is I who was the Great Warlord of Mordor, and it was I who instructed the Hordes of Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul in the arts of war and combat. I know how they make war and how they shall fight when you meet them, sword against sword. I can also detail the size and strength of the forces thus gathered, and I know secret ways whereby more armies are brought into Mordor, ways even Rangers may not know."

Faramir purses his lips. "Truly this is much to share. It would be of much use to my companies, if it should prove trustworthy."

Taurmarth regards Faramir. "And how am I prove it to you? Were I to take you on ten ambushes would it slake your distrust?"

"Perhaps," said Faramir. "But I would rather the locations of these secret ways be given, and I take my men alone."

"Well, you shall have them," said Taurmarth, "when my people have shelter and sustenance. At least take the women into the city if you cannot abide the whole of us."

"We would not part the men from the women, when we speak of the Black Númenóreans," said Boromir. "We would rather keep you together, so at the very least we may watch you all at once, instead of dividing up our guard to do so."

Boromir glances at the dagger in Taurmarth's hand. "And it seems as if your women should not be left alone at this time, as it stands."

Taurmarth looks at the blade, then looks up and beholds the faces of his kin looking back at him. The men's faces are etched with loyalty and admiration, but this is not entirely new to him; he has always held the respect of the Black Númenórean warriors. The witches also look upon him, and seem as if moved by his words, that he should place their safety at such high import. Long years in the shadow of Mordor have made them unused to the natural ways of their people, and such graciousness is indeed alien to them, so accustomed to hard survival and the imposition of dominion without compassion. The Ladies look upon him and all their customary hardness is gone from their gaze, and the men seem as if they gaze on a beloved brother. Taurmarth returns his eyes to Boromir. "They are my people, my lord. It was I who contrived the schemes to allow us to escape Mordor, and it was I who led them on our wild flight. And now it is I who take responsibility for them. I shall lead them, if they should still choose to be led by me, for our fight is not yet done. All we hope for is one battle more with the Black Lands, that we may strike some blow for our race, long ago drowned beneath the sea, all because of the work of our former master."

With that, a messenger rides up from the City. Long ago, the brothers sent word to their father as he sat high in his tower, carrying news of the arrival of the Black Númenóreans from Mordor, as well as their deeds against the Orcs. Faramir speaks with the rider, breathless from riding as hard from the City as his horse would permit. The Ranger of Ithilien turns to Taurmarth. "It seems you will have a chance to plead your case with our father, for the Lord Denethor has summoned you to appear before him. Your entire company is to be taken within the City and housed there until such time as you have met with our father and he has decided this matter for himself."

Taurmarth digests the message. "We shall accept whatever terms the Steward of the City shall lay before us."


	5. Act IV

**Act IV**

Boromir and Faramir gather their men and make ready to march to Minas Tirith. Taurmarth has his people ready themselves and break camp. Mithrandir also mounts his horse and is intent on entering the Court of the White Tree again, knowing this to be a matter in which he can prove helpful. Within short time they all begin the short journey across the Pelennor and make for the White City. The farmfolk who maintain their homesteads across the vast field before Minas Tirith stare in amaze at their coming, and indeed report seeing no more imposing a sight ever riding under a flag of peace towards the Citadel. The Black Númenóreans lead their horses at a brisk pace, their hair and clothing blowing in the breeze, their grim features laden with care and sadness, yet buoyed by a pride within that now grows as a dawning sun climbs the sky, slow and immutable. Yet to the citizenry they appear as terrible shapes, and some hide their faces as the Black Númenóreans pass, others stand frozen in place, just watching, and others run. They take note of this, and feel a mixture of pride and sorrow, always desirous of maintaining an intimidating aura, but no longer wanting to strike terror into the hearts of others, having enough terror of their own to shoulder.

Upon reaching it, the Gates are swung open and the Black Númenóreans are brought within. They are permitted to ride their horses, now understood to be of no threat, and intending none. They are led up to the sixth level, whereupon are located the stables, and they dismount, tethering their mighty warhorses securely and leaving them under armed guard, they are escorted on foot up to the seventh and highest level. There is heavy guard to greet them, and they take their horses as they dismount. The gúlhírilim are forced to remove their daggers, and the warriors their weapons, even the fearsome helms of the captains, and leave them with the guard before the Great Hall. This they do without argument, yet in grim silence; Taurmarth lays Angimil in the midst of the strewn weaponry and bids the guards that none shall lay hands upon it or aught else. Indeed, the gear the Black Númenóreans leave outside Denethor's great hall were fashioned in Mordor, despite obvious Númenórean lineage, and the guards dare not lay even their eyes on such things as are left at their feet, for the dread of the Black Lands lay heavy on them. The familiars of the draughelethrim remain outside the Hall, surrounded by armed guard, and the beasts sit silently, patiently awaiting the return of their masters.

Taurmarth chooses a portion of his host to enter with him, unwilling to enter into Denethor's court alone or even with small company, and this is granted to him, only that many armed knights will escort them, and their hands shall always be on their swords. So they pass into the Great Hall, Taurmarth taking but twenty of his people with him, men and women alike, to display the loyalty of his kin to the heirs of Númenor. Denethor looks up from his seat, and regards them with dark eyes as they approach. His gazes sets most on Taurmarth, who is in front of the press, but he sits back in silence and takes his time looking over the folk who gather before him. Tall and lordly they appear, for indeed they are of the blood of Númenor, and their proud heritage and bearing are not easily concealed. Arrayed are they in grim gear, black as night; their ancient and tattered garb is wrought in the image of their ancestors' finery, though heavy and unceremonious, made to endure the rough world from whence they came. The warriors are ever armed for combat, and their vambraces bristle with spikes, as do their heavy boots; dun hauberks hang blackly to their knees. Black surcoats and cloaks cover all, stained with the dirt and dust of Mordor and of the Pelennor, and the blood of the slain, Man and Orc alike. The draugheleth, the wolf-coats, the elite warriors who commune with wolves and channel their strength and ferocity, wear their wolfskins, pelts taken from the great beasts who served as Sauron's spies since the First Age. Many of their faces bear markings, some clearly ritualistic in origin, others the scars of battle or life in the Black Lands. Many wear grim designs painted in black on their countenances, war paint to unnerve their foes. The gúlhírilim, the women of magic, also are a grim sight, yet they stand queenly before Denethor. Their eyes are lit with a brightness none expected to see in the eyes of the servants of Sauron. Their black raiment is simple and unadorned for the most part, and while certainly durable the cut of their gowns are somewhat revealing-indeed, almost scandalous. The allure of their bodies were among the magics wielded by the witches of Mordor, and their long gowns clung sensuously to their forms. The women of Black Númenórean lineage inherited great beauty from their ancestors, and even the great evil of which they have been a part cannot hide it by much; the guards often catch themselves staring at the Ladies, almost as if transfixed. Their faces are stark and admit to no softness. Their hair is dark, many having colored it so, and they have painted their faces with black as well, only this time to accentuate their features in an evil fashion. Many have styled their hair and braided evil devices into it; others are wholly unadorned. It is clear that figures of great beauty lie beneath their salacious gowns, much the same as handsome and kingly men are concealed by iron thorns and war paint, but evil and fearsome do both appear.

For many hours Denethor questions them, till both they and he grow weary. The Black Númenóreans give him much information indeed, from the numbers of the Hordes to their size and armament. Taurmarth goes into elaborate detail regarding their fighting tactics and the manners in which they may be foiled in battle. He speaks of the secret ways whereby Sauron brings fresh forces into Mordor, using many paths available in order to dissemble the gathering of his armies, and confound Gondor's spies further. Denethor questions them the most about the nature of Sauron's movements, and of the spies he has turned loose within Gondor, to which many former agents testify, as Taurmarth knows nothing of the machinations of spies.

After Denethor dismisses them, the Black Númenóreans gather outside on the topmost level, saying little save to each other in small groups. Taurmarth stands near the tip of the level, looking out on Gondor below, trying to make sense of the storms within himself when he is accosted quietly from behind. He turns to look and sees a familiar face approach-the face he slapped to the dust when she tried to slay herself. "I wondered when I would see you again."

"I had hoped we'd be reunited under better circumstances," said the dark lady, leaning up against the rail upon which Taurmarth also leans.

Taurmarth nods and the woman continues, "I am ashamed of myself, my lord, and I apologize for disgracing you before your Men and the Men of Gondor."

Taurmarth smiles faintly. "No, Anírorien, there is no need to apologize. We are all under immense pressure as of late, and though I cannot tolerate such acts as the one you were going to commit, neither can I blame you for wanting to commit them. I myself feel as if I could just depart this world without a fight were my time to come, and other times I desire to fight even beyond my last breath. Yet I shall have you restrained if you should dare to lift a hand against yourself again. We are all too few as it is, and if we wish to strike any blow of vengeance against Mordor we shall need the greatest possible number we can muster."

Anírorien looks intently at him. "You have my word, my lord, that never again shall I raise my hand against myself. Forgive me, for I despaired much as the spells of Sauron left me. I was wrong to do thus."

Taurmarth now looks intently upon Anírorien. "I forgive you, lady, and hope that my lady and queen of all desiring lusts for better things."

Anírorien lowers her eyes and turns her face aside for a moment. "I've lusted for much, and I still lust now-but neither for great power nor for adoration or even fortune. All I wish is... peace. Life renewed. Good work to do in the service of Middle-earth. Or perhaps just the knowledge that I can be counted as human again after all I have done."

The Warlord regards her for a few moments. He beholds her, a grim and terrible Lady of the Dark Tower, and long was she in its service. He knows of how she was born in the early years of the Second Rise of Barad-dûr, how she was brought up by black witches like many of her "sisters" with her in Háyanor, and how the dark arts were taught her. He is well aware of how swiftly she grew in the service of the Dark Tower when he himself had her brought there and how in her turn she trained up other witches after her. He had witnessed some of the many daily and weekly rituals she oversaw or led that summoned forth black powers and added to the might of Sauron. Once, he enjoyed beholding the torture and sacrifice of the living, some more of the wicked duties that were the charge of her and her sisters, and knew how they also served as extensions of the Will of Sauron, using dark arts to press his desire upon the Orcs innumerable that were bred within the depths of the Dark Tower. In the dark years in Mordor, he desired her favor for that alone, for she also held power over the Hordes as did he. The Midwives of Barad-dûr answered to her and she was indeed the highest Black Númenórean in Mordor, save himself. Indeed, of all dread deeds done within Mordor at the hands of the Black Númenórean women, hers were the most fell. Yet she too was but a tool in the hands of the Dark Lord, and she was blinded to her own natural sense of mercy and justice, only acknowledging the feelings of greed and gain, of power and control, that were stoked within her by Sauron's own black arts, unbeknownst to her.

And to Taurmarth she was something else; she was his consort, and as the Azgarâbâr of both the Dark Tower and of Minas Morgul, he reaped many pleasures within the Black Lands. He had his share of women as well as wine, and his desires bent themselves most to the one Lady with the highest regard in Mordor. And she rebuked him not, desiring great favor with the highest Captain of the Black Númenórean warriors, and offered herself to him as if she were but a slave girl. Yet they could not find fulfillment merely in these games to rise in the other's favor, nor even in taking pleasure from each other, and thus were often drawn back to each other in never-ending searches for that which eluded them.

Now they stand again in each other's presence, again in a desperate search for answers and satisfaction, again pulled to one another as if by unseen forces. But now neither mere physical lust nor greedy goals bring them to this crossroads, but the terrifying reality that now dawns on all the Black Númenóreans that are gathered within the White City. Slowly and painfully the old skin of the past is shed, and the process is a wrenching one. They are wholly in the throes of the birth pangs of their collective consciousness, and are gradually emerging from the Shadow under which they so long dwelt. Taurmarth and Anírorien stand there, wordless and utterly silent, each regarding the other, mouths unable to attach words to the raging storms of emotions within them. They move closer to each other, and their hands clasp half-knowingly. Anírorien steps closer and lays her head upon Taurmarth's breast, and his finds his arms encircling her, securely cradling her in the deepening shadows.

Taurmarth marvels at this; he has held her at times before, after trysting, when they were both recovering from the exhaustion of their carnal sport. But never has he cast arms about her or any other woman for any other reason, and certainly not for reasons of compassion. But now he feels compassion, and pities Anírorien, where he once never cared a whit about such things. He has felt such for all of the Black Númenóreans who have escaped Mordor, as he has beheld them all in their suffering since their arrival in Gondor, and he himself has shouldered heavy burdens of pain and regret. Indeed, this emotion of pity is new to him, and it is disconcerting. He dislikes it on one hand, feeling as if it makes him a measure weaker and softens his hardened heart more than is customary or permissible. But on the other hand he embraces the new emotion, something within sensing this is yet another voice of his blood crying out to him, now that he has ears to finally hear it. Indeed, all the Black Númenóreans have unstopped ears and their blood is screaming loudly enough to deafen them as they all struggle now to hem in the vast tidal wave of new emotions and internal urgings that have steadily overwhelmed them since their flight from the Black Lands. Separated from Sauron's influence and with many miles between them and the Eye, they are becoming freer to fully realize their humanity.

Anírorien shudders softly against him, and Taurmarth casts his eyes on her. It seems to him that she weeps, however quietly, and bitterly at that. He adjusts his arms that he may hold her better, that she may feel safer and better supported in this weak moment. Indeed, to behold the Highest Witch of Mordor weep and tremble is a marvel to his eyes. It is but another sign to him that she is being freed of Mordor, as are himself and all the rest. Taurmarth casts his eyes up and looks out over the remnant of his people, gathered together in small groups, some sharing similar embraces as he and Anírorien. He then reaches up to scratch a sudden itch upon his face, and feels that his fingertip is wet. He looks at it in curiosity as he feels something wet run down his face. He touches it and his finger is moistened in the same way. He feels another such rivulet run down the other side of his face, and a touch reveals it to be much the same. He looks at his glistening fingertip, feeling the same sensation again, and is mortified. Never before has he felt this, no matter who he slew or burned. Be it disobedient Orcs on a training field or the families of Harad in sign of the price to be paid for disloyalty to the Eye or random foot soldiers of the Easterlings for similar reasons, Taurmarth has never reacted like this. Emotions and thoughts swirl within him, and he lets the voice of his blood carry him. He replaces his arm about Anírorien and lowers his head to her, setting his wet cheek against her head, and the fell Warlord of Mordor weeps with her in the growing shadows of the night.


	6. Act V

**Act V**

After some time passes, guards issue forth from Denethor's hall. They accost the Black Númenóreans and speak to them, then begin to usher them along; Taurmarth and Anírorien do not notice this until a guard comes up to them and bids them follow him.

Anírorien pulls up her hood over her head and hides her face, turning her tears away from the Gondorian. Taurmarth looks at the guard, then looks straight at him, not bothering to dry his eyes. "Whither would you lead us?"

"There are many abandoned houses in Minas Tirith, my lord," said the guard. "The Lord Denethor has decided that he will continue to house you and your company in the White City until such time as he can test the veracity of what you have told him and determine the full extent of your trustworthiness. You and your people will be housed here, under guard, and in the morning you will be told of your privileges and restrictions."

Taurmarth nods and ushers Anírorien to follow him. She glides alongside him, silent as a shadow, yet with a subtle but commanding presence. "Assuming we do not starve to death ere then," said Taurmarth with a measure of impatience. "We have yet to eat a morsel since our flight from Mordor, and I was told my people would be fed."

"We are dividing up our stores to distribute to your folk," said the guard. "We apologize for the delay, but we have little to be frivolous with, and must be sparing even in our generosity. The Lord of the White City will never be said to live in fear, nor to be stingy with his bounty, but there is little to go around."

"Then see to it that the women are fed first," said Taurmarth. "They are unused to long bouts without food or drink, even those who travel abroad, whilst my warriors are accustomed to eating but little when necessary."

"I will see that it is done, lord," said the guard.

The guard leads them along silently from that moment on. Anírorien takes hold of Taurmarth's hand as they walk, careful to do so subtly, recalling his command to have the women fed first. The voice of her blood whispering ancient chivalry into her soul evidences the justice of Taurmarth's command, and the nobility of such a sacrifice, to go without so that the women may eat. She is certain that there will be enough to go around, and hasn't even thought of sustenance since they fled Mordor, being laden with other cares. But she can see that she and all the other Black Númenóreans are among the cares of the Wolfheart, and he truly intends to hold to his word and take responsibility for them. She squeezes his hand gently, trusting him now as leader and protector as well as warrior, and he responds in like manner as they reach one of the abandoned houses.

They are led inside after servants finish hastily clearing out the humble structure of debris. Little ceremony is given, as the Black Númenóreans are under intense scrutiny, and the will of the Lord Denethor is such that the refugees of Mordor will simply have to accept whatever is given them, because he knows as well as they that even an abandoned house in Minas Tirith is infinitely preferable to camping out in the Wild, waiting for death to find them ere they can try their hand at revenge. Permitting them to make camp on the Pelennor was not an option, since it was more dangerous to leave them in the open, where any hidden Orc may creep up or alert others to the presence of the Black Númenóreans, and bring swords upon them.

Food is brought to the Black Númenóreans; simple rations of bread, cheese, milk, and a portion of a store of apples from a large harvest; there will not be meat to spare for days. They complain not at what is offered them, and are grateful though utterly silent. A few hours later, Taurmarth sits alone by a window in the house which he was assigned, looking out onto the city. He has removed much of his armor; his dark hauberk lays spread out on a table, his dreadful helm sits beside it, its long black and red tassel spraying out over its blackened crown. His cloak and surcoat are also removed and lay on the table beneath the helm. Angimil lays on the table, dark and imposing, and Taurmarth's lone weapon of war after the breaking of his sword. He still wears his boots, and his black trousers and tunic, but all else he has done off, the Warlord finally able to unburden his shoulders of at least the physical weight they have carried daylong. He has undone the small braids in his hair and brushed it out, and has bathed for the first time in many days. His beard, which had grown long and hoary, he has trimmed close to his face. He now rests himself at the the cool white stone of the sill, struggling with new emotions, new feelings, and a newfound humanity, and imagines much is the same for the others as well.

He also thinks much on Mordor and how they might strike back. Indeed, the Ephel Dúath is nigh impenetrable, and the Morannon cannot be taken by force, even if engines were to be brought, for the sheer height of the Gates is beyond the reach of scaling ladders, and there are thousands now stationed there, ready to destroy any intruder. It would take weeks to travel round the Mountains, either north along the Ered Lithui or down along the southern curve of the Ephel Dúath and attack Mordor from the east, and there is nothing but wasteland between Mordor's easternmost borders and the first assailable fortresses that dot its parched landscape. They would be easily spotted, and through the many secret passes hewn into the mountains Orcs would pour and harry them till the death-for their small host of barely three hundred to even conceive of such is the uttermost folly. Furthermore, Taurmarth is certain that Denethor will never permit them to lead any host from Gondor on such a foolish quest, especially since they are spread so thin with the defense of the City and Osgiliath.

Perhaps they will find their purpose there, swelling the defenses of the ruined city, or abroad with the Rangers in Ithilien, though that is a good deal closer to Mordor than he himself prefers to be at this time, and the same he knows can be said for the others. Had he enough of his people with him, he thinks he could assail Umbar and reclaim it. He has visited the Corsairs on many an occasion, to enforce the will of Sauron on them, and to make certain obedience and subservience are the gifts the Corsairs will give to the Eye, and he knows how to make them yield.

He loses himself further in thought, dwelling on how he enforced that Will. He thinks of the executions carried out in public and of the burnings of hundreds of Corsairs in their beds. He and his warriors would ride throughout the streets in the days when Umbar was not wholly obedient to the Dark Tower, and would hew dissidents and rape their women and drag them off to slavery in Mordor. The slain would be impaled on spears and often the living would join them, trees in a forest of the dead. After a few such visits, the Corsairs were more cooperative, and after similar actions in Harad the Southrons became very agreeable, though neither nation needed much swaying, already having been enamored of the Darkness. He ceases his mental debate, knowing this cannot be the way of things anymore.

He looks at his hands, the hands that burned and hacked in the name of Sauron. He regards himself and the things he did in service to the Dark Tower. Never did he bring a life into the world, nor protect a life already in the world until now, but countless are the lives he took, with those hands holding the weapons of murder or signaling the start of executions, or taking the life from his next victim. As victims he begins to look upon them, the men and women and children of Umbar, or Harad, and even the Orcs of Mordor itself.

Taurmarth is suddenly broken from his self-counsel as Anírorien appears in the doorway. She has taken time to search out a bath as well, and wash both the dust of Mordor and the grim paint from her face. Gone also are the devices braided into her long hair, and it hangs loose about her shoulders to her waist, unbound and new-brushed. She has scrubbed the foul dye from her hair that colored it black as pitch, permitting its natural hue to be seen. She has beaten the dust from her garments, and has removed the evil talismans worn on them, with her cloak gathered about her salacious gown, and now appears as a dark but simple lady, unadorned and unassuming. She bows her head politely as she faces him, and he rises from his seat and returns the gesture. He wonders for a moment what prompted him to do this; they never stood on ceremony in Mordor, where the strong remained seated and the weak or the crafty fell to their knees. Perhaps another message from his blood, brought over the centuries from ancient Númenor in all its noble graciousness?

Anírorien goes to the window where he now leans, looking back out over the City. Taurmarth's eyes return to her for a moment, for this change still strikes him in a way. She is still of a darkly majestic bearing, though now but little remains of the evil that Mordor colored her with. Indeed, she seems more as a simple lady of Gondor than the Great Witch of Mordor. She abides not the slightest element of Sauron's realm to remain in her and blacken her soul any longer. In the faint light of the room his keen eyes can now perceive Anírorien's true, natural beauty, and he sees her as he has never seen her, unadorned with evil objects or unnatural paint and dye. Anírorien pleases him-indeed, beguiles him-far more than she did when wrapped in the foulness and phoniness of Mordor. She leans against the opposite sill and they are wordless for a long while, neither speaking nor setting eyes on one another. Anírorien then takes a breath. "So, my lord, what are we to do now?"

Taurmarth sighs tersely. "The heralds of the Lord Denethor have spoken to me. Those of us with skill to match them shall be sent out with the Rangers to waylay the forces Sauron moves in secret and keep watch on his movements. Others shall go to Osgiliath to aid in the defense of that city, and to advise the captains there of the manner in which Orcs make war, to better prepare them for when Mordor comes again. The rest, lord and lady alike, shall remain here, in the temporary service of the White Tower, and shall be given livery of the Tower to wear each day. You and your sisters shall provide the Lord Denethor and the nobles of Gondor with advice regarding Mordor, and shall serve the Houses of Healing, and learn the arts of 'gentler women' and forget the black arts of Mordor."

He chuckles grimly to himself. "Skill to match them; a single warrior of mine could best five of Gondor's, and but one draugheleth embracing the spirit of his wolf can even force a mountain troll to yield, especially if your Ladies should sing magic in support. There have come with us several battalions of each, and few of my wolf-coats did not heed my summons out of Mordor. The blood of Númenór runs thick and hot in their veins. Gondor underestimates us through spite, it would seem. I suppose I cannot blame them, yet I would stake my life on the fact that the finest warriors standing on Gondorian soil are those who are newly arrived to these crumbling houses."

Anírorien digests his words. She sighs, accepting her fate, though begrudging it not, for it surely is a worthy penance to perform for her heinous crimes, even though the Lord of the City knows them not. At least she does not begrudge it entirely. "And when are we to be given our chance to strike back at Mordor? Without vengeance, what shall we live for?"

"The service of Gondor," said Taurmarth. "That is the answer I was given when I posed the same question to Denethor's herald. Our lives shall be lived now in noble service, and that shall be revenge enough, unless and until other opportunities present themselves. But such opportunities shall likely only come at the front lines of an invasion."

"What chance is there of that?" asked Anírorien. "You are the Warlord of the Great Towers and under your hand the Orcs learned war. Surely you must know when the Eye plans to invade."

Taurmarth purses his lips, considering his response. "I do not know when Sauron shall unleash the Hordes. Of course we... they... are massing for invasion, and the feeble sorties that issue from Morgul against Osgiliath are only to wear down Gondor's defense, to soften it up for the great stroke of the hammer upon the anvil. But that time is a guarded secret, and even the Nine know it not."

He turns his attention to the table which bears his gear. Lifting Angimil, he examines it, turning it over and over in his hands, pondering the course he has set his people on. After the tradition of the Black Númenórean since their earliest days in Mordor, the chieftain of their folk bears a mace in addition to his sword and dagger. This mace borne by the Warlord is able to be used with a single hand, but is more suitable for two, and is nearly a maul in size, with stout flanges encircling its strong head. It is graven with runes, spells wrought in the Black Speech of Mordor designed to bless its wielder with strength and curse its victim with death. After being forged wholly of iron, haft and head alike, it was graven and enchanted, then finished black as night, black as the Master its bearer served. Angil is its name in the tongue of the Sindar, and from that point on, Taurmarth forgets the name it bore in the tongue of Westernesse, a tongue soiled and stained with their use of it in Mordor.

Anírorien regards him for a moment as he loses himself in his thoughts, letting her gaze and focus trail off. She sighs lightly and turns her eyes to the outside. Taurmarth follows suit and for a brief while they stand there, staring in silence. "Where shall you sleep, lady?"

Anírorien looks at him. She swallows, weighing her responses against her better judgment and her inmost desires. For long years, both in the service of Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul, she and he have shared duties and served their Master together. Long toil it was, and oft joyless, and any pleasure to be found in Mordor was quickly taken, and she and he often found pleasure together. They sought pleasure with others, and in carnal union sought to forget for a time their wearisome labors within the Black Lands. Yet, as has been said, their efforts came to naught, and though for a time they were able to ignore the servitude of their lives in each other's arms, and the arms of others, they could never find the peace they sought most for.

Yet Anírorien knew that if peace was to be found, it was to be found in this dread Captain of Mordor. He knew the same, yet neither of them dared voice it to each other or even admit it to themselves. But that was long ago, in a harsh land of survival and death and evil, a land where the sun shone not and mercy and compassion would have been stumbling blocks. Anírorien slowly stands upright and walks over to him, her bright eyes focused on him, no longer in any attempt to subtly press her will upon him, but merely to open the windows into her soul. She now musters the strength to admit to him things she would not dare utter even to the shadows were she all alone.

"My lord Taurmarth, I dread the night. I close my eyes and I see no shadows or blackness, but death and torment. My mind is awash with the deeds I have done, and the blood in which I have bathed are the waves which carry such refuse to the shores of my heart. I was a monster, my lord, and my every breath is a disgrace to our ancestors, and to these noble and lofty people who have admitted us into their City and lay out the terms of our penance before us. Indeed, I feel as if such mercy is wasted on us, and on myself certainly, and ere I accept another gift from Gondor I would hurl myself from the great spur which points to the Black Lands."

Anírorien sighs and casts her eyes down. "I know I am not alone, and others feel this way, warriors and witches alike. I know I must not let the Darkness now consume me now that I will not let it buoy me up. Yet I cannot escape the sorrow which crushes me now, and I would sooner submit to it and let it press me into nothing than continue to struggle to hold it up."

Taurmarth sets Angil back on the table and places a hand on her shoulder, again urged by feelings that confuse him to his core. It is at times like these he feels as if possessed by some benevolent spirit and is only a spectator in his own body, watching himself perform deeds that are unlike him, and think thoughts and feel emotions that are equally alien to the Great Warlord of Mordor. Yet, he fights it not. "No, my lady, there is indeed hope, and escape. It is the thin faith I myself hold to now in these darkling times. I too am unworthy to draw even one more breath, and in oceans of blood and tears did I also bathe. I was deluded into believing I was setting the world to rights and bringing it to heel beneath the rod of its rightful Master. I believed salvation and strength came only from the Dark Tower, and I served Him tirelessly, all the while believing that I, too, was building a kingdom for myself here, as He told me. Indeed, we all thought that, and labored for long years to make ourselves Kings among Men, yet how little did we know we were only digging our own graves."

Taurmarth casts his eyes out the window again, looking off into the night. "I also do not look forward to sleep, though my body begs for it, and try to keep my eyes open, for all I see when I close them is my own life brought against me as testimony to all I have said, and to my own unworthiness. But, even if I should not sleep for days, I must press on, and hold to the faith that now, I do what is truly right. Now I truly labor to build a kingdom, this time not for myself, but for the folk of this City, the heirs of Númenor."

He gently touches Anírorien's chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. "That which the Steward said is true, my lady. Service to Gondor is revenge in and of itself. Every good deed we perform for the benefit of this country and her people is a blow that smites the Eye. And we have therefore landed many blows already, for now many of Sauron's secrets are laid bare before the feet of Denethor and his captains, and greater blows are still to come; we have but to ride forth and deliver them. Even if all you should learn are songs and herblore in these Houses of Healing, you defy the Dark Lord, who would have you return to him on your knees, to confess of all your doings against him ere he shall take you into the Tower and subject you to endless torment before his lidless wrath."

Anírorien regards him. "Your words do ring of truth, my lord. Indeed, I perceive it myself, and though we all despair we know this in our hearts, each one of us who escaped hither. Though perhaps I may never rid myself of the Darkness which plagues me, I am resolved to do what I may to spite Him and perhaps bring what feeble glory I can to this nation of our ancestors."

She sighs coldly and shivers. She reaches out as if to touch him, but withdraws her hand, uncertain of what to do, confused save for a few words upon her tongue. "I do not wish to be alone tonight. Indeed, I do not think I could bear it."

Taurmarth reaches out for her unsure hand and clasps it lightly, yet surely. "Nor I."

Taurmarth and Anírorien meet eyes and look into each other for a short while. No words are spoken; none can be formed. In the deepening shadows of the night, as the one lone candle in their room flickers in the breeze, they embrace and weep softly, and soon they indeed dare to lay themselves down to rest, each in the other's arms, to close their eyes and meet head on the evil things that shall assail them. Yet now they are a little more confident that they shall not drown in the black floods that rise to meet each of their souls, for, at least for one night, they have each other to cling to in the shadows.


	7. Act VI

**Act VI**

As the days turned into weeks, the Black Númenóreans become more settled into their new home. The abandoned houses which they inhabit are now known as the 'Black Quarter' amongst the citizenry, for indeed though they struggle against the evil which permeated their souls and colored every fiber of their being, the Black Númenóreans still exude an air of dread, waxing and waning according to mood and task and their seemingly ceaseless war against their own selves. They shed all names in that they carried in the tongue of Númenor or in the Black Speech, and the evil devices they carried with them were destroyed. The sacrificial daggers were melted down and the slag poured into the Anduin at Osgiliath, for the Men of Minas Tirith feared the evil that was wound into the blades. They did away wholly with the custom of painting their faces and coloring their hair, learning to honor their natural appearances as they were intended by Eru, and to let these features be shown; manes of rich colors from the fairest to the darkest instead of dirty, matted strands of unnatural hues contrived by the hands of the living in Mordor. They donned other colors of clothing instead of wearing naught save black, and adorned themselves with many deep and rich tones, the hues of gems and the earth itself. Always they endeavored to imitate the nobles of the past in speech, manner, and dress, and spent much time deep in research of sunken Númenor and her ways. They studied greatly the Eldar as well, for their ancestors were friends of the Elves in the days ere the coming of Sauron to the Land of Gift, and the Black Númenóreans sought to restore the knowledge and respect of the Firstborn in their hearts, heretofore devoid for ages of all love.

Over the passage of days, the Black Númenóreans became more their own kindred, and though they did not scorn the folk of Gondor oft did they shun social company, save for what few friends they made among the people of Denethor. More often time was spent in their own company, and slowly did they learn to enjoy drink and song again, but not the crass songs and carnal dances of their years in Mordor, but rather those culled from the preserved past of Gondor's warrior and rural classes. Also they learned what few songs of the Rohirrim and the Eldar that were recorded on sundry scrolls or kept alive in the taverns and farmsteads of the Pelennor, and nightly they used these weapons, drink and dance, to drive back the gloom that invaded each of their hearts. They wandered the streets and many levels of Minas Tirith, though they were not permitted to pass through the Gates without Denethor's leave. They took great pleasure in the Citadel, that fairest of all cities of Men that remained in Middle-earth, and found in it great inspiration. Long would they walk, alone or in twos or threes or fours under the great arches, and gaze up at the high spires and lofty buttresses, and lose themselves in the adornments the folk of Gondor hung from their homes, or hewed in the rock of their buildings, or carved in stone and placed in the streets. In these expressions of their kin they were ever pulled away from Mordor, and the hatred of such things that Sauron instilled in them for so long. In the quiet sunlight, the soft breezes that stole through the levels of the city, and the songs of birds that fluttered overhead, the Black Númenóreans felt themselves drift further and further from the Black Lands, and they learned to love beauty and goodness for their own sake. In those days, though they were ever grim and stoic, it was said that they were like slow-blooming flowers, nourished by the light of Gondor, and they were coming into full blossom, though it would be long in the working.

The Black Númenóreans often turned to each other for further comforts, and in time couples could be seen strolling the streets of Minas Tirith, warriors and witches, maethorim and gúlhírilim, as they did off their old lives and put on the new. Learning to find more in each other than only carnal pleasure, many of the Black Númenóreans rose, though at very slow pace, in the arts of love, and despite great confusion and much stumbling along the way, listened to this voice of their blood, which cried softly yet perhaps amongst the strongest of all voices. For their example they again turned to Taurmarth and Anírorien, who were oft seen together when not at their duties, and who remained in the same house in which they first wept together so long ago, upon first coming to the White City. He once known as the Dagrothor of the Great Towers and she once known as the Daer Gúlhíril of Mordor seemed to draw close, and indeed they came to share much affection between them, closeness and affection that little went unnoticed by their kin.

In time, more and more of their number were chosen to perform special service to Gondor. Many of the warriors and draughelethrim went off with the Rangers and patrolled Ithilien, or led raids deep into enemy territory, guided by those of the Black Númenóreans who knew the secrets of the Black Land. Many caravans of reinforcements to Mordor were ambushed and slain, and foiled were the plans of the Enemy, until the Eye was able to muster enough force to repel the Rangers and drive them further back from Mordor, and Gondor came to hold only Ithilien after a time. The women of the Black Númenóreans began to enter the service of the Houses of Healing, though slowly and only after careful choice, and were instructed in kinder arts. These they were all too willing to accept, for in despair did many of their hearts linger after facing the full truth of their deeds in Mordor, and they strove to rise in skill and favor in the Houses. They learned all manner of herblore and healing arts, and some even began to study the concept of magical song, of the sort contrived by the Eldar in the ancient days of the world. The menfolk who did not go with the Rangers instead entered the service of the White Tower, and took upon them the livery of the Tower Guard, yet were held to no oaths, being not thought worthy of the privilege of being sworn to Gondor's service, only being held bound by their desire to make amends for their crimes and the generosity of Denethor in permitting so. Mithrandir had part to play in this, and urged Denethor to hold them to no oaths, since theirs would be a special fate, as he perceived, and if they were so sworn, they would perhaps have to add oathbreaking one day to the list of ills they labor to redress. So Denethor suffered Mithrandir's desire, yet regarded him with suspicion, ever pondering the true designs of the Grey Pilgrim when all alone on the Seat of the Steward.

Often did Mithrandir mingle with the Black Númenóreans, and only he it was who would stride so boldly into their Quarter and speak to them of things unguessed at. The greatest interest he took in Taurmarth, for it was he who became the leader of this folk in both exile and service, and it was he who so often rose to speak for them in the hall of Denethor or gather them together and give what encouragement and love he could in those dark times. And Taurmarth came to love his kin indeed, turning himself ever to the natural inclinations of his ancestors, and he provided much guidance to his brethren in this. Mithrandir took note, yet interfered little, confident in the Wolfheart to perform his office of sorts with honor. He also took interest in Anírorien, for she was close to Taurmarth, and though she ever bore the same air of dread her kin bore, she grew in trust within the Houses, and the ladies of Gondor loved her and those of her sisters who lent their service there. Yet Mithrandir would not long stay in the White City and, taking counsel with himself alone, one day he sped off, indicating not whither. The Gondorians and the Black Númenóreans were both at loss to explain his actions, and went about their duties regardless. The months grew into years, and the Black Númenóreans did in time attain a measure of honor in the sight of the Men of Gondor, yet little did their dread abate, and ever they walked half in the shadows and half in the light, unable to recover further from their trials and possession.

And for a time all was routine, the Black Númenóreans performing their services and the Gondorians accepting them. Then, one day, Mithrandir came to the White City. He did not appear before the Seat of Denethor, for Mithrandir went in haste, and once within the City was joined by a companion who had stolen into Minas Tirith and lay in wait for the Grey Wanderer to arrive. Together, they made their way to the Black Quarter, to the house wherein dwelt Taurmarth and Anírorien. There, Mithrandir made certain of secrecy, and bade the two Black Númenóreans swear their first oath to one not of their own kindred, and that was not to reveal what they should see or be told here to any Gondorian, not even the Lord Denethor, not even were he to summon them before his Seat in wrath. To this Taurmarth and Anírorien agreed, after careful counsel between them, and Mithrandir indicated his guest to Taurmarth and asked him to identify him. Taurmarth examined the stranger intently and yet could not give a response, save that he appeared as a Ranger, perhaps of the wandering Northern Folk, despite his tall stature and the fair cloak within which he was utterly concealed. Mithrandir then bade his guest reveal himself, which he did, astounding Taurmarth and Anírorien, for before them stood one of the Eldar of which they had thought wholly passed from Middle-earth. The Elf spoke and identified himself as Glorfindel of Imladris, and of Gondolin of the ancient past, foe to Morgoth and all his ilk, and friend to Elves and Men and all folk of good will. Unable to accept Glorfindel's claim as much as they could not deny that the Eldar were wholly gone from Middle-earth as they once believed, Taurmarth and Anírorien questioned Glorfindel at length, and Glorfindel and Mithrandir offered much to sway their hearts. Having been a friend to the Númenóreans when the Land of Gift was still fair and noble, Glorfindel had much wisdom and knowledge he could pass to the Black Númenóreans as they endeavor to attain to the honor of their ancestors, so Mithrandir sped to Rivendell after the Black Númenóreans were given shelter in the White City, and pleaded their case with him. Glorfindel agreed, and so came in secret to Minas Tirith, to offer all he could to aid in the struggle against Sauron. Mithrandir was in need of haste, and after some words more between them all, he concealed himself and and departed, again not telling his purpose or destination to them. He only said that he will return for them one day, and on that day they and all their folk must follow, for the doom of all the world will be near, and perhaps also their chance for vengeance. Also, a token will be given to Taurmarth when the Black Númenóreans gather for war against Mordor, a token of great power to aid him in the final battle-till then, Glorfindel will aid the Black Númenóreans, but in the uttermost secret. Glorfindel also concealed himself in his Elven cloak and departed, promising to return soon, but always unlooked-for.

Taurmarth and Anírorien were reluctant to reveal this to their kin, but slowly did, for the coming of Mithrandir was no secret to either the Black Númenóreans or to Denethor, who also demanded an explanation. To their kindred Taurmarth and Anírorien explained that Mithrandir will help them work their revenge on the Eye, and that they must now live in waiting, for the Grey Pilgrim will come one day and they must all leave with him, for the doom of the world will be at hand. Knowing all too well what doom their former master has intended for the world, the Black Númenóreans agreed to abide by Mithrandir's call when it should come, honoring Taurmarth and Anírorien's oath of silence. But to Denethor they would not reveal anything, citing Mithrandir's oath as reason, and Denethor was wrathful, especially at Mithrandir for counseling him to not bind the Black Númenóreans to oath but now coming in the night, in secret, to swear them to secrets upon their word. He dismissed them from his sight, commanding them to never swear oath to Mithrandir again, though he should ride with all the Nine at his back. Taurmarth and Anírorien departed from the Hall of Denethor, and though their pride was wounded, they challenged not the Steward of the City, knowing that the next step all Black Númenóreans must take will be shown them by the Grey Pilgrim. Though they may fight for Gondor again one day, Gondor has nothing more that will help them, and now firmly resolved were they to leave when the wizard came.

Time passed and Mithrandir did not return. The Black Númenóreans went about their duties as ever they did, though noticing the greater scrutiny of Denethor, who became less tolerant of them in Minas Tirith, regarding them more as aliens and less as of the same race. Denethor summoned them never again to his Hall, and sent no word to them for long months, concealing himself within his Tower and turning a blind eye to them. From time to time, and never delaying long between visits, Glorfindel returned ever and anon to the Black Númenóreans, speaking to them of lore and wisdom, of Númenor in its glory, of the art of Elven song, and of the tidings of the world without. Through him, the Black Númenóreans learned of the movements of Sauron's forces, the dangers growing in Taur-e-Ndaedelos, the woodland realm called Mirkwood by Men, and of the Elven fastnesses of Lórien and his home of Imladris, which Men call Rivendell. Glorfindel also taught the Black Númenóreans about the Valar and Valinor, whence he was born in the Years of the Trees, and whither his spirit went to rest following his death at the hands of a Balrog of Morgoth during the Fall of Gondolin. Over time, Glorfindel even brought the Black Númenóreans in small groups to Elostirion, to behold the ancient palantír of Arnor which rested there; though this Seeing Stone, the Black Númenóreans saw the fullness of the lies Sauron had poured into their ears and the truth of Middle-earth-that the uttermost West did exist, and as they each and all set eyes on Tol Eressëa, the Lonely Isle, they knew their rebellion was not in vain. Glorfindel also intstucted the Black Númenóreans about Eru Ilúvatar and the truth about the nature of The One, in stark contrast to the lies of Sauron, who taught that Eru was a myth conjured by extinct Elves and rebellious Men, to ensnare those would would live free and strong. Through Glorfindel, the Black Númenóreans grew in understanding such as no amount of time in the libraries of Minas Tirith could ever afford, and due to him, they grew to become more like their Númenórean forebears than they realized, or would admit to.

One day, Boromir son of Denethor made ready to ride out from the City, and told Taurmarth that he was seeking Rivendell, and the legendary House of Elrond, but would not reveal why, for he swore to keep his quest secret. Taurmarth bade him farewell, and spoke of this to Anírorien and to Glorfindel, both of whom were certain that the hour of the Black Númenóreans was drawing nigh, and that the world was coming to an end. Their words rang true as the lands about Gondor grew more deadly; Osgiliath was assailed relentlessly, rumor came to Minas Tirith of treason committed by Saruman at Isengard, and of war in Rohan. Blackest among the news was that of the death of Boromir, and Faramir came bearing his broken horn, and before it all the Black Númenóreans wept, lord and lady alike.

Then, in the gloom of a quiet night, Glorfindel stole into the City, and Mithrandir came with him, in fulfillment of his promise. Though cloaked in grey, to Taurmarth Mithrandir seemed as if he were younger and with greater vigor and health, but he asked not into it. Mithrandir told him that the time was come, and indeed he was late in the coming, so haste must be made. When he left, Taurmarth and Anírorien took counsel together and accepted, though with heavy heart, the appointed hour of their leaving of the White City, the place of their reborn strength, and went in the uttermost secret to their folk and told them the news. Guided and aided by Glorfindel, through secret ways the Black Númenóreans slowly took leave of Minas Tirith, and their progress was hampered not, for the arts of manipulation were not forgotten by the Ladies of the Black Númenóreans, and in this dark hour they turned all their ancient and fell skill into the fulfillment of their oath to Mithrandir. They took hidden paths they learned during their years in the White City, ways hewn into the very rock of Mindolluin, a labyrinth of guarded corridors though which they were permitted to pass unchecked, until they left the Mountain and made for where Mithrandir commanded them to go the moment they were free of the City.


	8. Act VII

**Act VII**

When the departure of the Black Númenóreans was discovered and made known, the folk of Gondor were distressed, fearing they were serving evil plans; Denethor was hot with wrath, and had them searched for, to no avail. Denethor had them declared Enemies of the City and he commanded that they should be slain on sight if ever discovered. But the flight of the Black Númenóreans was the least among Denethor's worries, as Osgiliath fell and the Pelennor was overrun. Overwhelmed with fatigue and sorrow was he, and no joy came to him again. Soon, the Hordes that took Osgiliath marched on Minas Tirith, and Denethor turned to despair, forsaking his Seat; Mithrandir assumed command of the White City, leading them in resistance of the siege. And the battle against Mordor went long and ill for Gondor; though Rohan rode to their aid and Dol Amroth swept the Orcs from the Gates of Minas Tirith which they had battered in, death was near them all. Though the Witch-king of Angmar, Greatest of the Nine and Captain of the Armies of Mordor, was thrown down, Théoden King of Rohan was also slain, Faramir was near death, and Denethor had burnt himself alive in despair. He would have burnt Faramir with him, lost in his grief, were it not for the valor of Mithrandir and of Peregrin Took, a Halfling of the far-off Shire, who had ridden to Gondor with Mithrandir. All indeed seemed doomed, for the grim Easterlings fought alongside Mordor, and the Haradrim had brought warriors on the backs of great Mûmakil, and the black ships of the Corsairs were seen upon the River to the south. The defenders mourned, thinking the final stroke of doom upon them.

But it was not to be so, for upon the foremost Corsair ship the standard of the King of Gondor broke, a white tree crowned with seven stars wrought of gems and a crown of mithril and gold. Then, as the vessels reached the shores, Men leaped from their decks and into the quays, swords drawn; they were the Dúnedain of the North, the descendants of the remnant of the Kingdom of Arnor, to which the Witch-king laid waste ages ago. Gray-cloaked and dour-handed, they swept north; Aragorn led them, with Andúril, Narsil re-forged, blazing bright in his hand, and with him came Legolas son of Thranduil, the Elven-king of Mirkwood, and Gimli the Dwarf, son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain of Erebor.

The harbors then clogged with many more ships, similar in fashion to the vessels of the Corsairs, but yet different. From their decks leapt the Black Númenóreans, not merely the elite hundreds Taurmarth led from Mordor, but legion upon legion from Háyanor, as many mounted on horseback as could be, in fulfillment of Taurmarth's promise of the loyalty of that ancient refuge of the Black Númenóreans. They all were arrayed in grim gear, the warriors bearing their fearsome helms on their heads, their swords catching the sun and reflecting it like silver flames on the burning Pelennor, all save the arms of Taurmarth, who wore Angil and wielded a great black sword that almost seemed to glitter in the light; not at all the fell blade of Mordorian make which he had broken but one of graceful lines and early lineage. The Black Númenóreans bristled with spikes as in the days of old, for they wore parts of their Mordorian armor, yet these were burnished, and the rust and filth of the dark years removed from them; they shone as if new-wrought. The evil gravings on their helms and weapons were gone, and Taurmarth himself had removed the Black Speech from Angil, replacing it with a similar blessing-curse in the tongue of the Eldar and graven in their language. Taurmarth's tassel was no longer dun red and black, but newly-made of black and white; he led his host to battle streaming the colors of Gondor from his iron helm. The maethorim came first, winding horns and giving and terrible cries of war that struck fear into the hearts of Orcs and evil Men alike; on their breasts the White Tree blazed, for they all wore surcoats taken from Gondor when they stole away in secret. Amongst the warriors, the draughelethrim surged forward, berserk and bellowing, their titular wolf-coats catching the air around them as they raced into battle and summoned forth the strength of their lupine familiars to wield against Mordor. The witches came next, and as one they moved forward, arms raised, and song issued forth from them, moving the hearts of the swordsmen. Yet this was no mere battle-song to rouse warriors, but their ancient magic, based upon the art of Elven song, studied and learned in secret in their years in Mordor. With this device the gúlhírilim worked powerful spells as they sang magical hymns which were heard in the ears of all noble warriors descended from Númenórean stock, be they on the fields or in the City, and they felt strength flow into their limbs and courage into their hearts. No enemy dared assail them, for within the eyes of the Ladies the light and terror of Númenór shone, and neither the force of their singing nor the illusions of terror the Ladies weaved in their minds could the Orcs abide. Wolves also leapt from the vessels of the Black Númenóreans, not only the powerful familiars of the draughelethrim, but packs from the woods and mountains of Gondor, summoned in turn by the Wolf-coats' familiars as the Wolf-coats summoned their own beasts to war.

The tables were turned and Mordor was defeated. The Orcs were hewn like standing grass; few indeed managed to escape back across the Pelennor, only to drown in the cold Anduin. The Easterlings and men of Harad saw their doom upon them, and most turned to fight, being grim and fey, and rallied and charged the Defenders of Gondor time and again until they were wholly slain, save those few who threw down their weapons and sued for mercy. The Black Númenóreans distinguished themselves in battle for Gondor, knowing the ways of their foes better than any, and slaying them in heaps. They also provided the men of Rohan and Gondor with invaluable advice during the battle, using their considerable knowledge of Mordorian strengths and weaknesses and combat tactics to exploit a great many flaws in the invading host, information as priceless to the defense as water in the Haradian deserts. Among their great deeds were noted the stand of the Dark Ladies against the men of Harad, whom they paralyzed in fear with their song till they either fled or were slain as they stood, and of their warriors who ran to and fro as black flames upon a dungheap, consuming all filth in their path. Anírorien stood alone against a charging Mûmak, holding forth her hand, her song ringing louder than war-horns, causing the great beast to rear in panic, throwing from its back those warriors who did not leap to their deaths in terror ere the beast itself perished of fright. Baraheneb the Fiery-eyed and Bréglir Wild-song stood before the Ladies, their mighty voices channeling the others into verses that rose like an inferno and burned like star-fire in the hearts of the warriors. Taurmarth, his steed slain from beneath him, led his berserk Wolf-coats on foot, and they charged and rallied and charged again, and those orcs who did not flee vanished beneath their swords. Pengand the Bow-bold led his keen-eyed archers beneath the very feet of the Mûmakil, confounding the beasts and feathering their riders with many shafts, and Beltarag Strong-horn rallied the cavalry, and each blast of his mighty war-horn heralded the dismay of orc and troll alike. The wolves summoned by the Draughelethrim's own familiars also distinguished themselves well; the Orcs and Men who sided with Sauron were struck with terror at the mere sight of the wolves of the wild, once thought to be loyal allies of the Shadow, and few who were set upon by the beasts escaped being rent to pieces.

Little did the Black Númenóreans celebrate after the end of the battle, for their hearts were turned towards the slain of their number, which, though few, were in proportion large enough. Many fell, hewed as they plunged deep into the thick of their foes, berserk with battle-lust and vengeance, or trampled as they shot at the eyes of the Mûmakil, meeting death in the same manner as Halbarad of the Dúnedain and many of his kin, black cloak and gray often found crushed together. Though no enemy could assail the Dark Ladies, some dozen of them had perished through immense exhaustion of their very spirits, singing themselves to death as they labored to confound their foes and strengthen the defenders. Yet though the bodies of the men were hewn as they lay dead by the fleeing Orcs, footprints showed that even in death the witches struck fear into the retreating enemy, and they were left untouched. The Black Númenóreans grieved much for their loss, and bore their dead into the City, where they would in time receive ceremonial interment in the crypts of Rath Dínen, honored for their sacrifice, and regarded as a people forgiven. The Black Númenóreans then revealed the truth of Mithrandir's summons to them, telling them that he had brought Aragorn to them in secret, and were commanded to meet with him again when Mithrandir summoned them. Taurmarth and Anírorien then sped to Háyanor with some of their kin and Mithrandir, with whom they had been secretly communicating over the years. Háyanor was then firmly wrested from what little Mordorian allegiance remained, then forces were mustered to meet at Linhir above the mouth of Gilrain. From there, they rode with the specters of the Men of the Mountain, and overwhelmed the Corsairs at Pelargir, and then travelled to the Harlond to join the battle on the Pelennor. Upon hearing of this, the Men of Gondor were awed, and they loved the Black Númenóreans, and the citizenry did them homage.

Taurmarth then revealed the identity of the dreadful black sword he wielded; that it is Anguirel, the ancient sword of legend, mate of Anglachel and forged by the Dark Elf Eöl, stolen by his son Maeglin and believed lost in the fall of Gondolin in the First Age. As they gathered to retake Háyanor, Mithrandir presented him with Anguirel, which was given to him by Ulmo himself. Ulmo always loved the Edain as well as the Eldar, and was dismayed that no other help from Valinor or beyond would come to Middle-earth in this desperate hour, so he retrieved Anguirel from the ruins of Gondolin in the depths of the sea and brought it to Mithrandir, telling him to make the best use of the mighty blade in the struggle against Sauron. Mithrandir decided that Taurmarth, lord of the Black Númenóreans and ever seeking to atone for the endless crimes of his people, should wield Anguirel; in that way, he would cleanse the Black Númenóreans of their wrongdoings and avenge the sword itself upon the Shadow. Indeed, Anguirel was a powerful token in the hand of Taurmarth, cleaving iron like flesh and hewing swords and shields like naked limbs; it drank deeply of Orc-blood and at the end of the battle, was finally held high over a field of victory, centuries after the loss of Gondolin. The men of Gondor and of Rohan were in awe of Anguirel, such an ancient weapon yet still so fell in combat, plucked as it were from the very depths of time when the world was fresh and young and entire horizons were ablaze in war with the Shadows.

Despite the adoration of the people of Gondor and the horsemen of Rohan, the Black Númenóreans were fey, considering their debt still unpaid, and Taurmarth and Anírorien took counsel with those who survived the battle. Ever they desired to serve Gondor, since open war was now on them, and they knew the strength that Sauron had was now greater than ever it was. The Eye would not rest now, even in the ashes of this defeat, and death will come soon once more from the Black Lands. Taurmarth and Anírorien, now regarded as Lord and Lady of the Black Númenóreans in the eyes of Gondor and Rohan and fit to speak for them, were summoned to the throne room of Denethor again, where they took counsel with the leaders of the Men of the West as to their next decision.

In this hour it was revealed to Taurmarth and Anírorien the true purpose of Mithrandir's many journeys. The Ring of Power, the object of Sauron's greatest desire, was found, and it was fated to be carried by a Halfling, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, into Mordor itself and cast into the flames of Orodruin, to undo it and the might of Sauron both. Taurmarth and Anírorien were astounded at this, for they each knew somewhat of the Ring, yet not that it should end up in the hands of one of the folk of Peregrin Took, on its way into Hell itself, and were slow to believe it, until many proofs were offered them by Aragorn and Mithrandir. Convinced, they agreed with their comrades that there was but one choice left: to march on Mordor and besiege the Black Gate, to draw out Sauron's forces and buy for Frodo perhaps a chance to fulfill his quest.

The Lord and Lady of the Black Númenóreans gathered their folk together and explained the nature of the war to them. Slow were they to believe it also, but they did accept the proofs told them, and were committed to battle, not just for Frodo, but to continue their vengeance against Sauron, taking their crusade back into Mordor itself after so many long years away. This gave them a measure of satisfaction, but it was grim and joyless, and as each of them mounted a horse and rode with Aragorn and the army he led forth from Minas Tirith, they were certain they would die. The Ladies were initially forbidden to march with the warriors, but Taurmarth relented and permitted it, for their stroke of revenge was as just as any the warriors would offer, and even if only to confound the enemy with magic song they would endure the long and perilous ride back into Mordor.

So they set out, and in time came to cross again the Morgul Vale, which of old they had retreated across on horseback, and burnt as they went. Newly-grown were the noxious flowers that sprouted there, and though no trace of the burning would be found so many years later, in their hearts the Black Númenóreans were hoping to see some scar on the land left by their flight of old. But as they went by, passing within sight of Minas Morgul, the warriors called out cries in defiance of the evil that lay upon, and the Ladies sent forth a verse of song that rang in echo against the empty Citadel. Even the wolves that accompanied them howled, adding to the defiant din that sprang up around the ancient Citadel. Though it was devoid of foes, having been emptied for the assault on Gondor, it was thought that a cry went up in return, not the laughter of Orcs nor the screech of a Nazgûl, but some unknown wail of evil in agony, hearing retribution coming, and the sound of cracking stones was briefly heard. They set flames in the fields again and departed.

Though they were harried near journey's end, the ambushers were ambushed, and the company went on to come beneath the shadow of the Morannon. The Black Númenóreans covered their faces as the stench of Mordor, and the reek of fume was thick in the air. They were astounded that they lived for so long in such filth and evil, and were ashamed with the memory, doubly so to ride in the company of those who resisted evil always and gave to it neither quarter nor voice. Yet the voice of their blood was louder than ever, and they were determined to go on, to challenge their former Master to battle, for they knew Sauron must think that Aragorn had the Ring, and was riding there to dethrone him. Such they would have thought if they were still in Mordor, and saw such a force assemble at their Gates, swollen with great gathered strength.

Taurmarth and Anírorien rode together to the Morannon with Aragorn and his selected company to issue the challenge, for she would not leave his side in this darkest of hours, and would sing as he slew. He clasped her hand from his horse as the Gate opened, and they both trembled, their eyes for the first time in long years peering past the Morannon and taking a glimpse of Udûn. A Black Númenórean rode forth, calling himself the Mouth of Sauron, and he traded words with Mithrandir, who leapt from his horse and took from the Mouth a bundle of things which were carried by Frodo and brought forth as proof of his capture and torment in Barad-dûr, and rebuked him sharply. Taurmarth and Anírorien then did back their black hoods as the Mouth's eyes fell on them, and he recoiled in terror, seeing before him those he once knew in service to the Dark Tower.

"Ye traitors!" said the Mouth of Sauron. "Come ye now back to the Gates of Our Master to sue for mercy, or mayhap to prostrate thyselves before the Eye, and make atonement for thy crimes against Him?"

Taurmarth laughed grimly. "We come not to grovel before Sauron but to defeat him! And to you we would say, come away! For you are in slavery to Him, and neither kingdom nor palace do you build for yourself here, but a cage! Ever will he hold you in service, and you shall always be made to serve him!"

Anírorien drew herself up in her saddle and addressed the Mouth. "Consider this-what have you won? Terror from the Orcs? Bits of dark power or earthly delights cast at you from Sauron like scraps to a dog? For that is what we all were whilst in the Eye's service, slaves and dogs, and I say to you, come away and listen to your blood! Build honor for yourself, which shall outlast the world, and avenge yourself upon His empty promises and lies, which you know are ever unfulfilled and as such shall ever remain!"

With this the Mouth went dark, and for long moments he pondered the words of Taurmarth and Anírorien, knowing neither of them to that which they do not know or are not convinced of. But his service betrays him, and his lusts become him, and he spits at Taurmarth and scorns both he and Anírorien, calling them accursed and their lives forfeit. Taurmarth laughed darkly at him and said, "You were given your chance to question Sauron and deny the lies he has poured into your ear."

Taurmarth then cast a broken scimitar before the Mouth's horse, startling the animal and offending its rider, a scimitar taken from a slain Orc and which he broke in two after the siege of Minas Tirith was ended and the battle finally over-a symbol of victory and a statement of their own desire to break Mordor as well. "Tell your Master to send his dogs to retrieve their broken toy and to receive their swat on the muzzle!"

The Mouth recoiled again, and retreated, and the trap was sprung; cries rang out and Orcs poured forth from the dead woods around the Gate. Aragorn and his company raced back to their men, and Taurmarth rallied the Black Númenóreans one last time as the Hordes raced towards them. The Ladies sang out again, the wolves howled and leapt forth, and battle was joined before the Morannon. Yet neither song nor sword would win this day, as they were overwhelmed, and though they all fought with lofty bravery, joined by Gwaihir the Windlord and a host of the Eagles of the North, the descendants of Thorondor of old, death was indeed near them. But as the battle began to turn against them, and the Nazgûl flew overhead casting terror beneath them like a shadow, a cry leapt up from Barad-dûr and they wheeled round and flew for Mount Doom. Then the earth shook beneath them and was rent, the Morannon crumbled and was swallowed up, and the Hordes fled in terror. Taurmarth and all the hosts knew that Frodo was successful-that the Ring destroyed, and indeed within the heart and soul of each of the Black Númenóreans there was felt a great lightening, as if an immense burden was lifted from them. Then new strength came into them, as no song or spell could ever provide, and they went mad with fury, the men slaying and the women singing, and bloody revenge they exacted on Mordor, and no Orc that fled too slowly or stood to fight or cast itself on the ground in submission was spared.

Though the mood was great and immense joy filled the heart of every soldier on the field, still some cloud darkened the hearts of the Black Númenóreans, for they beheld their dead on the field. They lost few this time, and not a one of their number was slain when the Ring was destroyed and they increased in might and prowess-indeed, it was a rout of Mordor from that point on. Neither Man nor wolf fell in those final moments, buoyed up by the song of the witches. But, though they too were elated at the realization that Sauron was overthrown and Mordor broken and utterly defeated, their losses weighed on them, especially Taurmarth, for in the dead he saw only those who would never know the victory and the peace for which they suffered and fought so hard. The Black Númenóreans bore their dead back to Gondor even as they did after the breaking of the siege of Minas Tirith, and their first thought was not to Gondor rescued, nor to Aragorn the King Returned, nor to the two Halflings which the Eagles bore out of Mordor, Frodo and Samwise Gamgee, his loyal companion, but to their own. They rested not until they had laid their dead within the Gates of Minas Tirith, Man and wolf alike, and would not permit them burial in Mordor where they fell, regarding that as an abomination to those who had escaped the Black Lands. Aragorn suffered this, and in his presence had their dead entombed all together in Rath Dínen, where Théoden of Rohan was also buried, forever in the cradle of peace and rest of Gondor.


	9. Act VIII

**Act VIII**

The Black Númenóreans took up their former homes in the Black Quarter, and were little seen, save at the coronation of Aragorn as King of Gondor. At the ceremony they did him great homage, for as Taurmarth saw when Mithrandir first brought Aragorn to meet him in secret, they all saw in Aragorn the rightful king and leader of their race, and their greatest descendant. They honored him as such, and offered their service to him with humble formality, which they never did for Denethor save in word alone. Aragorn, kingly and fair and glad at the end of so much struggle, smiled and accepted their service, and proclaimed them restored to the name of their people and to the friendship of the descendants of Númenor who survived in Gondor or in the North, as well as of all the peoples of Middle-earth. Many of the Black Númenóreans wept with joy at this, lord and lady alike, and it seemed to all who looked upon them that they laughed and were truly glad for the first time since they came to Gondor. Truly, they were lit as with an inner light, and seemed more as the fair folk of Númenor rather than the grim folk the people of Gondor were accustomed to.

On the Day of Midsummer, many of the Black Númenóreans answered yet another call of their blood, and wedded each other, and the first among them to be so joined were Taurmarth and Anírorien. Love grew between the Lord and Lady of the Black Númenóreans during the years till it could be hardly contained, and inspired by the example of Aragorn and Arwen Undomiel, who were joined together that day with great ceremony, they could not but do the same, though with no ceremony. Only Aragorn and Arwen and a few of the Tower Guard beheld this, concealed in the Great Hall before the Throne of the King, for the Black Númenóreans desired no pomp and circumstance. Aragorn repeated his words of forgiveness and reconciliation and he did not command them to accept them, but asked that they would, for three times in his sight they proved themselves vassals of evil no more, and truly as the heirs of Númenor. The Black Númenóreans were touched to the core of their beings, and knelt in reverence to King Aragorn, and were overjoyed to be from that day forward regarded as Númenóreans by their estranged kin. They accepted the words of Aragorn, and remained in Gondor for some time, and though they ventured out amongst the other folk both visiting and living in Minas Tirith more than was their old custom, still they mostly remained within their Quarter, and took counsel amongst themselves.

They lent their service as they could, in the rebuilding of the City and of the farmsteads consumed by the Orcs. They returned unto Mordor and helped in the pulling down of Minas Morgul, and the song of the Ladies brought cheer to the hearts of Black Númenoreansan and Gondorian alike as they labored to remove that ancient blemish from the face of the earth. The Men Remade for a time were content in their service, in their small quest to bring added beauty and strength to Gondor, yet their hearts were restless and though they were finally avenged on Mordor and reconciled with all Men, still they felt pulled away from the White City. They knew that many Orcs and other foul things had escaped the fall of Mordor, and they knew that they would be unable to wholly rest until every servant of Sauron was hunted down and the earth rid of them. So, Aragorn granted unto them the tower of Orthanc, that ancient Númenórean fortress which was now under the watch of Fangorn the Ent, known as Treebeard, and he and his kindred were busy cleansing all the land around Orthanc from the defilement of Saruman and keeping watch over the tower and the land around. Aragorn came unto Treebeard himself, with a few of the Black Númenóreans with him, Taurmarth and Anírorien at their head. Aragorn told unto Treebeard all of the deeds the Black Númenóreans had done in the name of Gondor, and to make atonement for their crimes. Taurmarth and Anírorien told him their story, and spared no detail. They told him that furthermore it was their desire and the wish of King Aragorn that Orthanc and all the land once within the old Circle of Isengard should pass into the keeping of the Black Númenóreans, and from there they shall serve Gondor by hunting all manner of Orcs and other fell creatures that survived the breaking of Mordor. This was very acceptable to Treebeard, who much desired to avenge his folk and all the earth upon the foul Orcs, whom he hated above all things of evil will. Treebeard would have granted the tower and its lands to the Black Númenóreans anyway, yielding to the King of Gondor with all due respect, but would not have sworn the cooperation of the Ents. But now since they shared common purpose, the Ents agreed to assist the Black Númenóreans in their crusade, since they were all too few to achieve such a goal anyway, and the Orcs were doubtless spread wide throughout the dark places of Middle-earth by now. Taurmarth renamed the land Isengard, as he fancied the name the Rohirrim gave to the fortress the Elves called Angrenost in ages past.

So the Black Númenóreans left their homes in Minas Tirith, and once more the Black Quarter became an abandoned place, though alive with memories and the presence of those mighty and noble ones who dwelt there for a time, till the swelling population of the White City came to fill the houses again. They became as if a company of black-cloaked Rangers, delving ever and anon into the woods and mountains of Middle-earth, and oft did they share this duty with those Northern Dúnedain who still kept sword and bow ready in wait for any evil creature that should cross their paths. They were known also as the Black Dúnedain, robed in ebon as they issued from Isengard and coordinated their campaigns. The Black Númenóreans finished the cleansing of Orthanc that the Ents could not accomplish on their own, and removed from it stores of evil things. All the devices and lore of Saruman, all his scrolls and tomes and various foul items, were gathered together and burnt at the feet of the tower, and they would heap onto the flames more such scrolls and books, containing all manner of foul learning and Ring-lore, and the blaze burnt well into the night of the first day of their arrival. They shunned no visitor but summoned guests only rarely, and little did they hold counsel with others, save the Ents and what remained of the northern Dúnedain still abroad, though it was said that at rare times Taurmarth conversed with Aragorn through the Orthanc-stone, which was also entrusted to the care of the Wolfheart and his folk. The Ents shepherded many of the trees that came to take root there into a living fence to replace the old one of stone they tore down in the War of the Ring; the trees proved themselves a stronger wall than the original, and never was this mighty circle breached as long as Orthanc stood. A new banner broke over Isengard, no longer the White Hand of Saruman, but a rampant wolf, noble and fair and crowned in gold, in argent upon a field of sable, the White Tree of Gondor bright in the honor canton. With the help of the Ents, the Black Númenóreans built upon the land in later years, for those who took each other in matrimony began to bring forth children, and now the numbers of the Black Númenóreans swelled rather than dwindled, and Orthanc could not properly house them all.

In these early days of Isengard's new glory, King Aragorn and Queen Arwen traveled there with a small host to proclaim Taurmarth as its Lord and Anírorien as the Lady of that land. Isengard was to be ruled by them and their line, so long as they should choose to remain there, and it would be a region of its own, under the crown of Gondor, from where final authority over that land would come. Taurmarth agreed to this, being humbled and honored by this chance for he and his kin to serve their race again, and he accepted this charge, knowing it provided lifelong and perhaps eternal service to Gondor, especially if a proper kingdom could be established there.

At Isengard they gathered wolves also, for since the passing of the evil of Sauron and Saruman, these creatures fell no longer under their sway. The wolves that faithfully served Taurmarth during the War of the Ring joined with the beasts of the wild displaced by the War and combined into formidable packs. More of the Black Númenóreans learned the speech of the beasts from Taurmarth, who was taught a higher form of it by the Ents, who in turn learned it from the Elves in ages long past. Taurmarth gave to the wolves the same chance that was given to the Black Númenóreans by Denethor years ago, and by Aragorn now, to serve Gondor and defend her from all foes, and especially to hunt the Orcs who still inhabit Middle-earth. The wolves obeyed this summons, and ever did they faithfully serve both Gondor and Isengard, and ever they patrolled all lands as far as they could reach, from Gondor to Rohan to even the Shire far-off, always in secret, and they found and slew many Orcs that else would have persisted in defiant survival. They lived in some of the caverns Saruman had hewn out in Isengard long ago, and in these caves they bred and became as a second army in the service of Gondor, under the command of Taurmarth, but acting of their own accord unless summoned otherwise by the Lord of Orthanc.

Anírorien and many of her fellow gúlhírilim also kept their wisdom alive in Isengard, and gathered many women there to instruct them in the arts of magic. She and her fellow ladies forbade the use of certain magical practices once employed in Mordor, such as living sacrifice and ritual suicide, and instead endeavored to pursue magic according to the wisdom of the Eldar and towards more altruistic ends wherever possible, though the arts of offensive magic were far from forgotten. Anírorien also researched forms of magic new to her, especially those of Elvish origin, and passed this knowledge on to her kindred.

Within Isengard, the Black Númenóreans continued their assimilation into what they saw as their proper identity. They did not struggle against the remnant of Mordor alone; they fought to reclaim their past and the knowledge of their heritage. They researched the ancient traditions of Númenor and brought back the practice of ancient customs. They sought to cultivate the nobility of old and the higher aspirations of their ancestors were taken up again; arts and practices of chivalry flourished in Isengard until it truly recalled the honor of Númenor. No longer did they refer to themselves as "Black Númenóreans" but instead as _Encarnatani_, which in the tongue of the Sindar signified _Men remade_.

The Encarnataniresearched and revived the ancient worship of Ilúvatar and the custom of the Three Prayers was restored. Each year, Taurmarth ascended to the top of Orthanc and led the gathered throng in the Erukyermë, the Erulaitalë, and the Eruhantalë, his voice heard all over the land, carried by Anírorien's magic, and each day of such was a day of great feasting and revelry as per tradition. Though this renewal of the ancient religion, the Encarnatani grew all the more noble and wise and within their hearts burned the glory of Númenor, visible to all who beheld them. They erected a monument to Ulmo in honor of his gift of Anguirel, and Isengard became as a mirror reflecting the ancient glory of Númenor, almost a portal leading both to the past and to the future.

The remnant of Mordor dwindled under sword and fang until they became wholly extinct, and their evil became only stories told to children at night. In this the Ents helped much, and the Dúnedain of the north who persisted in their duties till death also fought alongside the Encarnatani. After a great many years a small company came to the Gates of Minas Tirith, cloaked and hooded in black. They were led by Amdirthal, eldest son of Taurmarth and Anírorien; his brother Bôrcand and his sister Miluinûriel came with him, all arrayed in somber fashion, and bringing with them horses drawing a great wagon, from which flew pennants of Isengard. Queen Arwen and King Eldarion the son of Aragorn were summoned, and the doors of the ebon coach opened to them. This was a grim time for Arwen, for it were only just days before that King Aragorn had laid himself down on his bed and surrendered his life while still in the nobility of his manhood and kingship. Arwen bowed her head low and a tear fell from her cheek upon each of the two bodies robed in black before her, and she knew what was to be done.

And so in Rath Dínen Taurmarth and Anírorien, the King and Queen of Isengard, were laid to rest. It was said that together they laid themselves down, feeling the ebb of their lives draw to a close, and chose death over persisting in growing frailty and enfeeblement. Though they themselves asked not for the honor of this final resting place, it was done at the wish of King Aragorn, given shortly ere he died, that they should be honored thus in death, for in life they earned such. To this their sons agreed, though they told it not to their parents, who would have thought themselves unworthy of burial in the great tombs of the Silent Street. In solemn and quiet ceremony the Lord and Lady of the Encarnatani were set to their long sleep in the honored halls of their race, finally returning to the City of Kings.

Tela.


End file.
